Ghetti’s Spaghetti
Ghetti chewed garlic whenever he made spaghetti. He would mince the garlic, and then pour all but a few pieces into the dark red pot. He would then take the remainder—which was the size of a thimble—and place it on his tongue as if it were Christ’s body. He would press the garlic into the side of his mouth in the way that you might with hard candy.
As I watched him, I would pretend that the garlic had somehow become something more edible—a green jolly rancher, a piece of saltwater taffy, a bite of ripe pineapple or whatever scrumptious taste invaded my mind. And as he sucked and chewed on that garlic, I tasted all of those delicious things.
And so I would search through cabinet drawers and canisters, seeking the foods I imagined. I would gorge on crunchy cashews, rubbery raisins, sweet cereal. I would eat
And eat.
And eat.
And eat.
And then he would tell me, “Spaghetti's ready.”
Monic Ductan is a Southern fiction writer and poet from rural Georgia. She received her undergrad degree in English from Georgia State University. Monic is currently working on a chapbook of short stories and a fiction novel, and she is also searching for a literary agent. Her work has appeared in The Blue Moon Literary and Art Review and Black Magnolias Journal. Contact her at monicductan@yahoo.com.